A Study in Slavery
by Sweetinsane
Summary: John has never owned a slave of his own, but after returning from Afghanistan is awarded one with his pension. A disobedient male slave with way too much troubling history, however, is not what he would have chosen himself.
1. Chapter 1

I love slavery fics, but usually John tends to be the slave. I wanted to reverse that without making Sherlock's enslavement a sudden change in their life, nor did I want to make him a brainwashed sex slave. John is also often portrayed as someone firmly against slavery, and that is something I want to do a little differently, too. Apart from that, I just really want to explore what the world might be like, should slavery be a common thing.

This story is also on AO3.

* * *

John Watson had never owned a slave in his life. They had a family slave when he and Harry were children, but by the time John had been six years old, her health had gone downwards from old age and she'd been put down soon after. They never bought another slave. Couldn't afford one, John himself couldn't afford one once he had moved out. Then he'd joined the army, still unable to afford one, but also entirely unable to maintain one. Not that he had ever really wanted one, not that he thought he should have one. To own a slave would be a life utterly in his hands. And John, given his somewhat...unfortunate history with slaves before the army didn't feel confident about having such responsibility.

He had, of course, met and worked with plenty of slaves during his life. He'd used slaves just like any normal citizen would. Slaves were, after all, an essential part of everyday life no matter where you went. Well, almost at least, if one didn't count the few strange hippie countries that had outlawed slavery. It was a miracle their economy survived.

There had been slaves at the kindergarten and the schools he went, there were slaves at the university and there certainly were slaves in the army to "keep company" to the soldiers. But never had he owned a slave of his own.

Well, apparently he was about to now.

He had read the letter through several times, just to be sure he understood it right. And thus Captain John Hamish Watson, as the letter addressed him, now nervously stood at one of the front doors of the Greater London Institute of Slavery, an enormous building complex with offices, reception areas, waiting rooms and most importantly the holding centres where unowned slaves owned by the monopoly of the Institute were kept, trained, bred and grown. InS was responsible for the popular monthly slave auction within its compounds, and it held the title of the largest slave market in Europe. John leant to his cane, holding the letter in his free hand, attempting to figure exactly where he was supposed to go.

"Can I be of use, sir?"

John turned his head to see a door slave standing in the doorway. As was to be expected of his kind, the man was well over his fifties, but eager to help him find his way in the building complex.

"Uh, yes", John replied and limped through the door the slave kept opened for him. "I'm here to collect a slave."

The man smiled at him. "Aren't you all, sir?"

Technically John could have whacked man with his cane for being clever with him, but he just handed the slave his letter. "I've got this."

The slave gave the document a quick look and then hurried to open the inner doors for him. "Second floor reception. The lifts are over there, sir", he pointed as he spoke. "Take a queuing number, it's sixth button, and just sit to wait."

John thanked the slave. When the lift's doors opened, he found himself in a cozy reception area with large windows, green sofas and a handful of potted plants. There were at least thirty people in the room, a few of them with slaves. He eyed the ticket machine. Button number one said "auctions", number two "lost property". The sixth read "pensions", so John pushed it and received a ticket with F135 printed on it.

It took nearly an hour before the LED board chimed and his number appeared on it, instructing him to room number 12.

"Hi, John Watson", he greeted once he'd closed the door behind him. "Collecting a slave."

"Yes, I gather that from the fact that you are here", the woman whose office he had entered said. She stood up to shake his hand. "Joan Bruce. Please, have a seat."

John took the invitation and sat in an armchair as she sat back on her seat as well on the other side of the desk. He smiled at her, but she didn't smile back, just typed, presumably his name. Though there ought to be dozens of John Watsons in London. He handed the document over the table and Ms Bruce took it without saying a word.

"First slave?", she commented after ten seconds of more typing and clicking.

John licked his upper lip. He wondered if they did any background checks on new slave owners. "That obvious?"

She looked at him pointedly, like a person who dealt with similar situations on daily basis. "Yes. Also helps that there are no previous ownership records in the national database."

"Oh. Right."

Silence fell between them for nearly a minute as she kept working on her computer. The phone on the table started ringing, but she never answered it. John tried to occupy himself by looking at the framed picture of Mt. Fuji on the wall.

"So, a war hero?" Ms Bruce finally inquired pleasantly as the printer on the side table started printing.

"Apparently, yes", John admitted reluctantly. After a few seconds of silence he added, for the sake of conversation: "I didn't know they were giving slaves to veterans these days."

"Only for the decorated ones, and even them only if someone applies for them to get one. Apparently your heroic actions awarded you one." She glanced at the printer, unconsciously stroking her wavy black hair behind her ear. She was wearing large silver leaf earrings. "Whatever it is you did."

"I saved a friend's life."

"Good for you."

John felt a sting of bitter anger at her dry remark. What did she know?

Ms Bruce reached for the printer and then handed him the paper. "Please check that all your personal information is correct and then sign here."

"And that's it?" John asked, but his surprise was drowned under the annoyance he'd started to feel towards the woman.

"There'll be a few other documents you need to sign after I've brought the slave, but that's it", she confirmed. "Are you familiar with the slave rights?"

"Yes, of course." He eyed at the document and quickly signed it without really reading it.

"Good. But, just because it is my job to remind you: six meals a week is the minimum. There's more information about the exact calories on the pamphlet. Causing permanent injuries is forbidden and a slave must be allowed a reasonable amount of sleep. Again, the pamphlet has some ideas of discipline. An injured or ill slave must be allowed enough time to recover. After all, a healthy slave is a useful slave", she recited like she was trying to sell toothpaste on TV. Even her enthusiastic smile with a row of whitened teeth matched the image in his head.

"That should pretty much cover it, but a copy of the actual slave rights act is with the papers you receive. I suggest you read it carefully. Your slave's ID is 99OR-79/3J3A. I'll print out its papers and you can give these", she began, handing him the said slave rights act, the newest copy of monthly _Possessions_ magazine published by InS and something called _The Handbook of a New Slave Owner,_ "a quick look while I collect your new property."

John inwardly grimaced at the description. Most people referred to slaves as him or her when their sex was clear, but there were always those who preferred "it". She obviously had the slave's paperwork on her screen, so she fell into the latter category. But perhaps it came with the line of work.

He didn't get to choose, but considering the circumstances, he was quite positive it would be a female. He was an invalided soldier. They probably thought he needed someone gentle to take care of him. Not that he was complaining. He imagined a young blonde, girl-next-door type of a slave. A little shy, but eager to please and make a good first impression on her new owner. There would be sex tonight. John didn't waste time on thinking he'd be the slave's first owner, but he actually preferred it that way. His thoughts drifted to the dark skinned slave girl back in Afghanistan. Her name...John wasn't sure if she'd had a name. Whatever the soldier chose, probably. She'd liked John, had been sad to see him leave. John regretted he'd been too much in physical pain to have one last night with her.

Ms Bruce got up and the printer behind her started working again. "Make yourself comfortable. Shouldn't take more than ten minutes."

She disappeared through a back door that locked itself automatically behind her. John glanced at the clock on the wall and for the lack of anything better to do began reading.

* * *

99OR-79/3J3A hadn't been born a slave despite being one for most of his life. He used to be a human being. His name had been William Sherlock Scott Holmes. His parents were of a wealthy background. His mother a celebrated mathematician, his father an artist. They had owned several slaves themselves. He had lived in a nice country house with his family until... Well. One wrong word uttered at the wrong moment had been enough to change that. But that was all far in the past now, none of it could be undone.

Sherlock opened his eyes. The holding room seemed uncharacteristically spacious due to the natural light pouring in from the small windows. It was a sunny day out there. He'd been to rooms with a layout identical to this one before, but it was his first time in a room with a window. Usually he'd been held in the underground rooms or on the other side of the corridors where the windowless rooms were just as dark. He didn't even need to share the four bed room after his "flat mate" had been taken away eight days ago. How lucky of him.

He stretched his arms the best he could while lying on the lower bunk before sitting up and twisting his neck until it gave a satisfying crack.

Bored. So _fucking _bored.

He had been in the holding centre for almost two full weeks now and it would still be nine days until the famed monthly auction. Damn master and mistress Summers for handing him over so far from the auction day. Damn InS for not putting him for sale publicly. It worried him. Why hadn't they put him on sale yet? Did they think he was worth more if sold at the auction? Didn't seem very likely given his what must have been written on his file.

Damn mistress Summers. He hadn't even done anything wrong, not this time, not after Florida. When master Summers had purchased him little over a year ago, it had been a relief. And he'd sworn to himself this was the last time. He hadn't exactly embraced his new life with his new owners, but he'd decided he was tired of trying to escape it. Pursuing freedom wasn't worth it, not if it wasn't one hundred percent certain to happen. He'd sworn himself he wouldn't risk it, wouldn't risk his life, sworn himself he'd behave. And he had. For little over a year he'd been as good as he could. It had taken him _effort_. A fucking year of near picture perfect slave and then his mistress sold him because she grew bored of him?

It wasn't fair. A year of tolerating her stupid kinks and playing along and she got_ bored_? He'd been bored ever since setting his feet into her house, but he hadn't complained. Much. And then one day she just said she was bored and wanted to sell him and buy someone else!

He looked at the mattress above him. If today was indeed Thursday, 21st of January, it would be his twenty-third anniversary as a slave in little over two weeks. How time had flown. If he were to close his eyes, he could still easily recall his first night in a cell identical to this.

Sherlock glanced at the narrow window near the ceiling. He would've begged on the floor to be let out in fresh air had he thought it would be any help. He had hardly been out of this room. Given his ill temperament, he hadn't been sent to train younger slaves or do any kind of work, not even when in his boredom he had asked to be given something useful to do. He was nearing the point where he would willingly attempt something incredibly stupid during the next time he'd be herded to the showers if it weren't for the fact that he knew from experience that such an attempt would only get him tied to the bed. And then he'd be guaranteed to end up going completely insane out of the frustrating lack of anything interesting.

He swung himself to the top bunk in an urgent need to just_ do_ something. Besides, he couldn't properly see out without sitting on the top bunk. At this point he was desperate enough to stare at the little strip of blue sky and the wall of the opposite building visible behind the glass. Seeing even a glimpse of a bird or something else that _moved_ would be better than the grey walls or the back of a mattress above him.

"Bored..!" he groaned out loud when he heard approaching footsteps from the corridor. Maybe they would hear and even bang the door while they passed by. "BORED!"

The footsteps paused behind his door. He jumped down upon hearing a distinctive beep of the card reader and the electronic locks unlocking. The floor guard must have really had a bad day for bothering to actually open the door. Sherlock could hardly hide his grin while kneeling on the floor like he was supposed to. Couple of blows with the baton and he'd have at least _something_ to distract himself from this boredom. He would welcome the adrenalin rush with open arms if it could bring some change to this ever predictable dullness of the holding centre, where each day was followed by an identical one.

But it wasn't the floor guard alone. Instead a woman about his age, dressed in a grey skirt and a purple jacket stood in the doorway. The floor guard who had opened the door waited behind her in the corridor.

_Single, two big dogs, owns a nearsighted, right handed slave, had fruit salad for breakfast, office job_, his brain supplied and then: _oh, I've been passed to a new owner._ Either someone who knew him had bought him (unlikely, no one had ever bought him outside an auction or the market hall) or he had randomly been chosen from the slaves available.

Some kind of lottery winner, perhaps? A slave among gift vouchers and cars wasn't an unusual prize. Sherlock shouldn't have kept looking at her, but he did, since most people found it unnerving to have a slave stare at them like a free person.

"99O-R79/3J3A", she read from a small tablet's screen without bothering to look at him. "Change immediately and follow me. You're leaving." She clearly had already gone through his file for she added: "_Again."_

Sherlock rose, pulled the blue tee shirt over his head and let the dark grey sweatpants along with his underwear drop on the floor before stepping out of them. He used his bare foot to lift them, gathered all the clothes in his arms and exchanged them with the floor guard for an ill-fitting dressing gown: too short, but hanging loose on his narrow shoulders.

Once they were out and the door had been closed behind them, the guard shoved him a black duffle bag containing all his possessions. Sherlock threw it over his shoulder and followed the woman, nodding a goodbye with a grin to the guard. The man narrowed his eyes in obvious distaste and grabbed his arm violently.

"You better behave yourself", he warned. "Because you're lucky, you know. Your number's already on the list. They would've dispatched you after the auction if you were left unsold. And I see to it personally that you'll end up on that list again if ever find out you've been thrown back to this facility."

"Duly noted, sir", Sherlock replied, wrenching his arm free. "I believe my new owner is waiting."

He hissed in pain when the guard thwacked the side of his head. "You're complete waste of money and you've been given far too many chances already."

Sherlock had to bite his tongue not to say anything. It wouldn't do him well to anger the man. If he ended up with a bloody nose, the slave handler who had come to collect him might have him changed for another one. Then he'd definitely end up to the death row he hadn't even known he'd been on already.

"You are correct, sir", he said quietly, bowing down his head.

"Keep that attitude and they might keep you. Move it."

Sherlock let the man shove him away. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Enough chatter, you're lagging", his handler called from the lift. She didn't hit him. She didn't need to. One brush of her shocker on his shoulder and Sherlock was on his knees, biting back a whimper.

"Quiet", she ordered. "Not a word unless he wants to hear you speak. You're a troublemaker and probably should've been dispatched a long time ago. You aren't worth your own paperwork."

* * *

John hadn't even bothered to open the pamphlet containing the full slave rights. He was familiar enough with them. The new owner's handbook hadn't seemed very interesting either, so he settled for flipping through the pages of the magazine. _Possessions _was the largest and most popular publication in Britain aimed for slave owners. InS funded most of it, and naturally tried to make as much money out of it as possible. It included a four page sneak peek of the monthly auction, so people were actually able to start bidding for the best slaves even before the actual auction day. The auction itself was an ancient tradition, even though selves here were on sale every day of the week.

Apart from the obvious self-advertising it was like any other slave mag. The articles gave advices (_10 creative ways to discipline your slave_), covered the latest hot topics (_Medical testing on all terminally ill slaves,yes or no? Experts answer on page 22!_), interacted with the readers (_AmazingElli asks:"My slave gets hysterical around dogs. Nothing seems to help. What should I do?"_) and offered fashion tips (_Season's hottest trends to make your slave stand out_).

The printer had silenced seven minutes ago and John wondered if he could just go and pick the documents himself, when Ms Bruce returned with a man heeling her.

_A man._

John's jaw dropped in disappointment. She led the slave to his side of the desk, picking up the prints on her way. The slave stopped near the wall, carefully lowering a duffle bag to the floor.

John stood up as well, feeling uneasy with everyone else standing. But seriously, _a man?_

"Here it is, Mr Watson", she announced unnecessarily, tugging the slave's sleeve. He yanked his arm away from her, undid the sash and shrugged the robe off his shoulders, letting it fall around his feet.

"Prime condition, as you can see", she hurried to say, hastily making the man turn around a full circle. "Just turned thirty-three, excellent health despite it's been two years in America", she read from her tablet.

"No tendencies for falling ill and naturally it has passed all our health checks and its vaccinations are in order. Would you like to have a look at the teeth? Prostate? Erection?" she offered, picking up a box of disposable latex gloves from the shelf.

"Er, no thanks, I trust everything's alright."

John gave the slave a brief look from head to toe. He was tall, taller than John, but then again, it wasn't a big achievement. He was a few years younger than John and looked the part, had a curly black hair, pale skin, piercing blue eyes and it was very clear he had been fully shaven some time ago. He had scars on his back, so John wouldn't have called him "prime condition". John quickly settled for his face. It wasn't a bad face, but quite far from what he had been hoping for. He wouldn't have said the face was unpleasant, but there was definitely something alien about it. Alien in a weird, handsome way. But it was a male. The slave's jaw was tense and he stared intensively at the wall behind his to be master. John thought he really ought to say something. Maybe he could still get a female if he opened his mouth now. Ms Bruce looked at him as if expecting him to say something, and when he didn't, she pushed the slave's shoulder down and hissed: "Floor."

Sherlock, who so far hadn't said any of the sixteen remarks that had crossed his mind obeyed, albeit a bit slower than he should have. He knelt, leant his forehead against the floor and brought his hands before his head where they could be seen. No matter how many times he kowtowed, it was always humiliating. It didn't help to be completely naked, but it was customary since the Roman Empire for a buyer to be able to fully see all parts of the potential property. He briefly entertained the idea of commenting on some of the "cosmetic errors" left on his body the woman had tactically failed to mention, but decided against it. She _did_ have the baton after all, and he preferred to be able to properly walk when he'd finally get out of here. And despite his natural instincts to rebel, he had no desire to sabotage his sale if the alternative was possible execution after the auction.

A shiver ran through his body, but it had nothing to do with how he felt about the situation. He was fine with being shown like this as long as he kept his mind occupied with something else. The floor was cool and felt cold against his skin. He _was_ cold, he could feel the hair rise on his arms in response to the sensation. Sherlock rested his forehead against the linoleum and closed his eyes in attempt to relax. The two free people in the room kept talking as if he wasn't even there. How he _hated_ it.

"It comes with a standard ID chip on the left arm. It has a GPS tracker that can be accessed online. I'll enclose your log-in information for our online services with the contracts. It's covered by the basic insurance automatically. However, in this case I would _strongly_ recommend you to get a proper insurance that covers more than the absolute musts."

Sherlock felt like sighing in annoyance. The soldier who was to become his new owner sounded puzzled: "Why do you say that?"

"I read its file", she replied, but hurried to continue: "There's nothing wrong with the file or the slave."

"It says he's property of the InS", his to-be owner said, rustling the prints.

"Initially, yes, but that's the case with nearly all of the slaves _The Institution_ handles", she said, emphasising her correction. Typical from an InS worker to frown upon the abbreviation everyone else but themselves were using.

"All the rights concerning the body will be moved to you, of course", the woman continued to explain. Sherlock had heard these lines every time when sold, ever since he was twenty-three.

"So what does it mean, then?"

"Well, we can't remove it from you or anything. The first three years are a trial period of a kind."

This part Sherlock hadn't heard before, so he listened carefully what being a pension legally meant for him and his new owner.

"If this item doesn't suit you, you can request it to be changed for another slave during that time. After three years there will still be a period of two years when it can't be sold privately. Basically, if after three years you decide you don't want to keep it, you can hand it back to The Institution and The Institution will compensate you, but won't give you another slave anymore. If after five years you still want to keep it, the resell rights will be handed to you as well."

"Right. Alright."

"However..."

The next part Sherlock knew well.

"It most likely doesn't concern you, but this item cannot sign the so called "emancipation" contract before two-thousand and..." she rustled the papers for reference, "thirty-two."

Sherlock already knew this. John, however, felt slightly uneasy. _Now _would be a _really_ great moment to say he actually really, really would prefer a female. Especially after that. He didn't want an ill-behaving slave. He wouldn't trust himself with a slave like that.

"Why not? Not that I was planning on freeing him or anything..." It felt a little bad to say so in front of the slave in question. He was only vaguely aware of what an emancipation contract actually meant apart from the obvious: a contract between the legal owner and the slave where the owner agreed to free the slave. He imagined the conditions of such contract to be extremely strict. The owner could not back away from it easily, so the contracts weren't very popular as far as he knew.

Ms Bruce all but rolled her eyes. "Personally, I don't understand why anyone would free a born-a-slave, or even a class C slave like this one here", she huffed. "They can't adapt to the society. They only become a burden for the real, tax paying people like us."

John turned to briefly look at the man crouching on the floor, not commenting her words. The man was skinny and pale, but not in a way he'd seen abused slaves being skinny. He wasn't malnourished. Just regularly skinny like a slave. He clearly had muscles, but he could also see the man's spine visibly sticking out from his back. The scars didn't stand out much from the pale skin, but they were scars and there were lot of them. If they weren't caused by an abusive owner, they were unquestionably a bad sign. There were only so many reasons for a slave to be legally caused such wounds.

"So, why the deadline?" he asked instead, turning his attention back to the woman.

She grimaced slightly. "There was some trouble with it in the past, apparently. An escapee and foul-mouthed. I suppose that's why they picked it an owner like you. It needs more discipline than an average slave to stay in line."

"Oh." John couldn't figure out anything more to say. He wasn't sure if he was that kind of an owner or if he even knew how to be a slave owner in general. Perhaps it was a silly way to think about it, but it felt like an enormous responsibility to have a slave. This man would belong to him within minutes and John would then almost literally hold his life in his hands. He had certain duties towards his property enforced by the law, but otherwise he could do whatever he wanted to this man.

He could have him scrub the floors, cook for him, give him a massage, wash his clothes, do the shopping, have sex with him. Initially, it was up to John when and where the slave would sleep, when he could use the bathroom, where he could sit or stand and when he could talk or whether he'd be allowed to have his own opinions. Every word the slave said and every talent he might possess would belong to John. It was a strange and slightly terrifying thought.

"Well, if you don't have any questions..." Ms Bruce prompted. Last chance to get the slave switched.

_I would really rather have another one, please_ he was meant to say, but instead he found entirely different set of words coming out of his mouth: "Right, no. No, I think that pretty much covered it."

"Good!" She nudged the man on the floor with her shoe. "Up. Get dressed."

The slave sat on his legs and started pulling out clothes from the bag he had with him, while the woman beckoned John to the desk. "If you would then just sign here and here, please?"

John eyed the documents, still not really caring enough to fully read them, still thinking he ought to cancel this and scribbled his name at the bottom. She signed them as well, added an official looking purple InS stamp on them and enclosed the other one to the archives at the back wall, and the other together with the slave's file.

Behind him, the slave had got up and was pulling a shirt over his head, silently eying at his new master. Just when John got the newly acquired papers safely closed to his bag the slave slipped into a surprisingly expensive looking dark coat and bent over to pick up the duffle bag and the dressing gown. Without a word he placed the latter one on the desk and bowed to his handler. She didn't acknowledge the gesture in slightest and kept her eyes fixed on John, who smiled for the lack of better response.

"Please read the file carefully. And I can't stress enough how important it is that you read the slave rights and laws that concern you as a private slave owner. You can always give a call to our service number in case something comes up."

"Alright. Thanks. It's...going to be handy to have a slave around, I guess."

"I should hope so", she said, giving a meaningful glance at the man in question. The younger man turned to John, bowing deeply for a several seconds to acknowledge him as his new master, before throwing the bag over his shoulder and striding to open the door.

"Goodbye, Mr Watson. Enjoy your new property."

* * *

He still thought he ought to turn around and return the slave when they stepped out of the building. The slave followed John in silence to the bus stop, only a few paces behind him. The previous bus had just left, John could see it waiting at the traffic lights, but the next one pulled to the stop within a minute. They climbed in and just when John swiped his brand new Oyster card, an alarm went off at the doors behind him.

"No slaves on the bus", the driver called, his voice dull and monotone, as if it was something he had to repeat at every second stop.

"What?" John blurted. Behind him the slave stepped out and the alarm silenced. Of course, he'd forgotten that most buses didn't take slaves. In his defense, it wasn't something he had ever needed to think about before. And he hadn't been in London for a long time. Too bad the slave had an ID chip, otherwise they might have got away with this as long as the slave had kept his left wrist hidden.

"You've got to wait for the next bus that takes slaves", the driver explained. "Or your slave can follow you later. But this is non-slave turn."

"I can't do that, I just got him. He doesn't even know where I live."

"Then get off the bus, please, and wait for the next bus that accepts slaves."

"When's the next one?"

The driver sighed. "There are several on this route, there's one driving right before me, you just missed it."

"But this is InS!" John exclaimed. Of course there would be people wanting to come and go with slaves!

The driver merely sighed again. "Are you getting on or are you getting off?"

"Fine", John sighed and stepped out to accompany his new property. The doors hissed closed in front of him and the bus took off. _Just my luck_, he thought while checking his watch. Knowing the buses, there was no guarantee of when the next one that accepted slaves would come. He wouldn't have time to wait if he wanted to make it home and have some time before his job interview. He still needed to fix some parts of his CV. Waiting at InS had taken considerably more time than he had thought and Ella had practically forced him to look for a job.

There were two reasons for why he didn't want to use the tube. First was that the nearest station to his flat wasn't exactly near, not when you had to use a cane with a sometimes painful limp. The second was the slave.

He'd just been told the man had a history of attempted escapes. What wouldn't be a better chance to try again than the tube? They would need to go to separate cars and all the slave would have to do would be to get off at a wrong station. When (and it was definitely _when_) he'd get caught, he could just say he hadn't tried to escape. That he just mistook the station because he had just been given to a new owner.

"I guess we'll just need to get a cab", he admitted his defeat, already silently counting how much it would cost him and then realised he had forgotten to ask for refund for the bus drive he hadn't taken. Several cabs drove by, but none of them stopped.

The slave lifted his eyebrow, but still said nothing. Instead he stepped to the roadside and like a miracle, a taxi stopped at his hail. He smirked at John's astonished face and swung the door open.

John got in and while he advised the driver of his address, the slave walked around the car to get in as well. He placed his bag on the empty middle seat, eying at his new owner curiously.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he suddenly asked when the cab pulled back into the forenoon traffic.

It was the first time John heard the slave speak and he was startled by the sudden, odd question. "What?"

The slave's jaw tightened and he repeated: "Afghanistan or Iraq, _master_?"

"No, that's not what I– Afghanistan..."

The slave nodded and there was a moment of silence before John turned to look at him. "How did you–"

"Obvious", the slave interrupted. "I know I wasn't bought, so either I'm a prize or part of your pension. Your conversation while I knelt on the floor confirmed the pension, but I had already picked up you were a soldier. You are very tanned, so clearly you've spent time abroad recently, but the tan line ends at your wrists and neck, so you weren't there for the sun. Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. So there, a soldier. Now, not everyone receives a slave with their pension. You are young, clearly you were forced to leave the army. Something must have happened and you must have committed some heroic act to be awarded like this. You were injured, but perhaps you saved someone.

Your limp is bad when you walk, but you had no problem with it while standing when you weren't paying attention to it. Your therapist says it's psychosomatic, which I'm afraid is true, but you were injured nevertheless and relieved, thus pension it indeed is. Now, where can a military man get himself injured these days? Simple: Afghanistan or Iraq."

John's first reaction was irritation for being interrupted, but as the slave kept speaking in an endless flow of words, seemingly without stopping to breathe at all, John couldn't helped but to listen in awe. Once he stopped, John stared at him and he stared back with unwavering blue eyes.

"That…" John started when he felt like being able to make a complete, coherent sentence again, "was amazing."

It was the slave's turn to look shocked. "Really..?"

"Yes. Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people usually say…" the slave muttered, still looking a bit stunned by John's reaction and burrowing his brows deeply as if he couldn't comprehend the logic behind his words.

"What do people usually say?" John inquired, genuinely curious.

The slave smirked, but the faked smile didn't reach his eyes. "Shut your mouth or I'll find better use for it."

John laughed nervously. "Oh…"

He felt like saying sorry, but honestly, who apologised to a slave? So this slave had been used to perform oral sex, so what? Plenty of people had sex with their slaves. In fact, all people with slaves had sex with their slave. He shouldn't feel bad or uneasy about it. He'd known this one had had more than one previous owner, _of course _he had been made to have sex at some point. He had been shaved clean just a few weeks ago, he'd clearly been someone's bed slave. None of that should matter as far as the slave was healthy, and he was, they all went through extensive health checks before being sold.

John bit the inside of his lip, feeling ridiculous. Hell, _he_ had had sex with slaves in Afghanistan. Why did he care about this slave's sexual history? It's wasn't like he had planned on having sex with his new property, anyway. Not now that it was a man instead of a woman. Besides, like many people from families who couldn't afford a slave, he had always thought that an actual loving and willing person would make much better company in the bed. The "real men don't need slaves to get laid" attitude. In the army there really hadn't been other choices to have sex, and the bed slaves had been quite willing partners indeed.

_Uh..._

Why were his thoughts even going down this trail? He glanced at the slave from the corner of his eye, but the man was facing the window. John concentrated on the advertisements at the back of the front seats in silence, letting their exchange play through his head again. Everything the slave said was true and it seemed logical now that it was explained, but he couldn't see how anyone could notice all that and put it together like this. Except...

"How did you know I have a therapist?"

The slave didn't turn to look at him. "You have a psychosomatic limp, _of course_ you have a therapist."

"Of course..." John muttered, regarding the man silently. After a while he spoke again: "So... I don't think I caught your name yet?"

The slaves official papers only mentioned his ID-number, which John couldn't recall, not that it was a proper name anyway. Though naturally, a master could call their slave whatever they wished, but most people gave slaves actual names that stuck with them even if they changed owners. Some named them like pets and apparently many named their bed slaves by actors or characters they fancied. Some even gave names that were insults and not for children's ears. John had no interest in making up names if the slave already had a name he preferred.

"Nine-nine-oh-ar-hyphen-seven-nine-slash-three-jay-three-a", the slave recited quickly from memory, without needing to check his wrist where the ID was permanently tattooed, like a half of some kind of a bizarre wristband. His stigma, as the tattoo was commonly called.

"Uh, no, I meant like a proper name. Anything you prefer?"

"You're my master now, it's within your rights to name me as you please", the slave countered, still talking to the window rather than him.

"Well I don't feel like naming you. You weren't born a slave, you definitely have a name."

The younger man shrugged his narrow shoulders. "My previous mistress chose to call me _Ravenhair_. She was into books about pale, sparkling vampires", he explained with distaste. "I had to read them to be able to get in character for her. I've deleted it now. Master initially just referred to me as "the pale one". Probably an insult to mistress's...hobby. "Darling, get the pale one to warm the bed." "Pale one, do the dishes." "Pale one, clean the cat's litter box"", he imitated. "Her version was the one to stick, eventually."

John snorted. "I'm not calling you that..! Come on, I'm _ordering_ you to give me a proper name."

The slave sighed silently, finally turning to face him. "Holmes", he said like it was the last thing he wanted to say out loud. Strange, one would imagine that normally a slave would have been happy to have decent name instead of something like Strawberry, Cocklicker or...Ravenhair.

"My name is Holmes."

"That's not a bad name at all. Alright, Holmes it is. I'm John."

Holmes's face was unimpressed. There was something about his piercing eyes that made even a soldier like John feel a little uneasy. Not that he was planning on letting Holmes know that, so he held his gaze until the slave shrugged and turned to the window again. It was about power balance, he could tell. For some reason years in enslavement hadn't made him submissive and John had seen it immediately when the man had been brought in to the office. The way he'd stood and stared at the wall, enduring the humiliating process without batting an eye, even mildly defying the handler. Most slaves on sale kept their head bowed down and were uneasy unless they were primarily bed slaves or even actual sex slaves, used to the nakedness even in public. Holmes, on the other hand, was clearly already testing his new master, trying to intimidate him with his unslave-like behaviour.

John huffed at the thought. He was the master and Holmes would need to remember his place. Surely the man couldn't be as difficult as the Ms Bruce the handler had seemed to suggest. He'd been a slave since he was a child. He must have had adjusted to his role in the society by now.

They sat in silence for the rest of the drive. Holmes followed him patiently while he limped the stairs painfully slowly to reach his flat.

"Right, here we are. Bathroom's here, kitchen's over there", John explained with a wave of his free left hand. "Just leave your stuff somewhere where it's not in the way. I'll figure out where you can put it later", he planned, handing his coat to the slave. "Brew me a cup of tea for starters, I have to print out some CVs."

"Yes, master."

Sherlock hanged the coat, watching his new owner limp to a desk and then gently lowered his bag on the floor, next to the wall. The flat was small, void of almost all personal items. The furniture was cheap and kept to minimum. His master sat down and pulled a laptop from the drawer.

Right, off to work then. The kettle was easy enough to spot, but he needed to rummage the cupboards to find a cup and the tea (bags, no loose leaves, but Dr Watson didn't seem to own proper tea, so there was little actual brewing involved). There was milk in the fridge, but he couldn't locate any sugar cubes, just regular sugar.

"How do you take your tea, master?" he asked, just to be sure, as the printer went off. The man turned to look at him like he'd forgotten Sherlock was there. Which wasn't an unusual situation –he was a slave, after all.

"Milk, no sugar."

Sherlock faked a smile and nodded with equally faked enthusiasm. Well, at least he wanted to tell himself it was fake. His sudden eagerness to serve wasn't entirely an act. After the weeks spent within the same four walls, where only meal a day and a shower three times a week had distracted his routine of absolutely nothing happening, nearly anything to do was welcome. Even if it was to serve a new master.

Besides, he reasoned, it was just another new owner, another new idiot to serve. If he'd just play his cards well now, then who knows, life might be interesting for a little while. So he smiled, fished out the teabag, threw it away, poured the milk and stirred the hot beverage while walking. He put it down on the desk to his new master's left-hand side and eyed at the computer screen over his shoulder. The browser was opened on a blogging site. _Dr. John H. Watson… _The latest entry was from yesterday: _How?_ said the title. _How do I delete this?_ The task bar showed one opened document titled 'CV'.

"Thanks", Dr Watson muttered. After sipping the tea and a while of silence he added: "I guess you could do the dishes next."

Sherlock's lips twitched, but none of his dislike towards the task was audible in his dutiful "yes, master". There weren't a lot of them anyway. Just a couple of spoons in different sizes, two forks, a knife, three mugs and a plate. His master seemed to prefer take away straight from the package. He took his time nevertheless. He'd much rather wash cutlery than a toilet on his first day in his new home.

He'd been on his new task for several minutes when Dr Watson put away the laptop and started to get ready to leave, so Sherlock temporarily abandoned the dishes to help the jacket on the ex-army doctor.

"I'll be back by half five. Just…" John shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, make yourself familiar with the room and do…whatever it is you do. And, um… Have me something to eat by the time I'm back."

"Yes, master."

Sherlock waited for the door to close behind his owner and listened in silence for a while. A genuine smile crept on his face and he couldn't help but to make a little victorious jump out of excitement. He was alone and unsupervised. Time to get some fresh air.

* * *

Apologies for any mistakes, English is not my first language.

(no, I absolutely do not find slavery acceptable in the real world)


	2. Chapter 2

John felt exhausted as he later limped up the stairs back to his flat.

"Ah, master, welcome home!" Holmes smiled and quickly helped John out of his jacket. "Was your job hunt successful?"

"I hope so..." he muttered, not really meaning what he said. He felt indifferent.

_I guess I could get used to this..._ he mused as Holmes handed him back his cane and put away his jacket. Hopefully the slave had managed to prepare something nice. John was starving. He knew his cupboards were practically empty, but there should have been enough ingredients for spaghetti with vegetables or a sauce or something. That or maybe an experimental pizza.

However, the sight that waited on the table was far from either.

"Is this a joke?" he gaped, gesturing at the table with his free hand. Because if it was, it wasn't very funny and John was not on a humorous mood. "Is this your idea of dinner? Cereals..? FUCKING CEREALS?"

Holmes flinched at his sudden outburst, emphasised with a violent tap at the floor with the cane. He hastily placed the milk carton he'd been about to open on the table and dropped on his knees, face towards the floor.

"Fuck, sorry, sorry", John automatically hurried to apologise and explain. "I didn't mean to yell, it's just..." He gestured with his hand helplessly. "Just this leg. PTSD."

The slave said nothing and kept his eyes cast down, clearly bracing himself to be beaten. John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What the hell happened?"

"I meant to cook pasta, but I burnt the spaghetti", the man on the floor replied. "Master", he added quickly. When John said nothing, the slave continued to explain himself: "The cereals were just a quick fix, I didn't have time to start over. There's sauce, though it might have gone a bit cold..."

He lifted his head to look at him and placed an apologetic smile on his lips. "I could start over now, but I'll need to wash the–"

"Forget it", John interrupted, still angry. "You can have whatever's left of the pasta. Cereals, too, if you want. I'll go and get something from the Pakistani takeaway around the corner. Just clean up whatever mess you made first", he sighed, making a vague gesture towards the kitchenette.

"Yes, master", Holmes replied and after half a second added: "Thank you, master."

"Yeah, whatever... Won't take long."

Holmes got up and followed his limping master to the door, closing it behind him. When John came back after twenty-five minutes, the slave sat at the table, eating what apparently was what had remained edible of the pasta. At his arrival the slave swiftly got up to help him with the jacket once again, took the plastic bag and hurried to clear the table.

"No, it's okay", John said, following him to the room. "You can eat there. Two seats, plenty of room for both of us."

The slave looked at him with a dubious look on his face, but didn't argue. Instead, he pulled John a chair and made his way to get him a plate.

"Oh, you don't have to, I can eat from the–" John cut off his sentence in the middle. The slave looked at him over his shoulder, through the window in the wall between the kitchenette and the living space, already reaching for the cupboard.

_I can eat from the package, less dishes_, he'd been about to say. Stupid. He didn't need to worry about something like that anymore. He had a slave now. So instead he said: "It'd be...nice. Yeah."

The younger man nodded, proceeding with serving the take away on an actual plate.

"Shall I pour you a beer, master?" Holmes asked, setting the plate and cutlery on the table for John.

"Uh, yeah. Please."

Wow, it'd take some time to get used to being served all the time, even in his own home. Having a personal slave somehow felt quite different than being served by an army slave. Back in the army, only some of the higher ups had had personal slaves. It was great, though. Less limping for him. Which was precisely the idea, wasn't it?

Holmes brought him his drink and soundlessly sat back where he'd been sitting when John came back. The pasta indeed was a little darker in colour than it traditionally was supposed to be. Some looked like it had been soaked in the water for far too long, whereas some sounded like al dente gone wrong.

"What about the sauce?" John asked after a while of listening the uncooked spaghetti crunching in his slaves mouth. "You _did_ make sauce, right?"

"It's on the counter", Holmes replied. "Should be alright."

"You didn't want any? With the pasta, I mean?"

Holmes's eyebrows burrowed and he looked at John like he'd just been asked something completely irrational. In a way, John knew, he had. He shrugged: "I've no interest in starving you. It's not like I'm eating it now. I can have it tomorrow if there's any left, but you might as well have some now."

"Thank you", the man said, pushing the chair quickly back. He strode to the kitchenette with a few long steps and returned to the table after adding several spoonfuls of the sauce on his plate.

John watched the slave from the corner of his eye, who seemingly was fully concentrated on emptying his plate.

"You know...you should've just told me."

"Told you what?"

"That you can't cook. It's not like I'm going to flog you for that, if that's what you're afraid of. So, next time when there's something you really just can't physically do, just tell me. I mean, I didn't even read your file yet. I don't know where you've been before. I saw you were used as bed slave, but I just assumed you were a full time house slave."

"I _am_ a house slave", Holmes confirmed. "Mostly. But I'm not a cook. It's not very interesting."

"Interesting?" John huffed. What a very unslave-like thing to say.

The slave leant forward, bringing his long, slender fingers together in front of his face. "I find it hard to concentrate on tasks I don't find interesting."

"Do you often get to pick your tasks yourself?"

An emotion John had no time to name passed the slave eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by hard, intense stare. The slave tilted his head. "Of course not."

"Right... And how did you even manage to burn _pasta_?"

"It dropped on the stove from the shelf and was set alight by the gas."

John nearly choked on his beer. It shouldn't have been that funny, but for some reason it was, and before he knew it, he was laughing. He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like this. To his surprise, the slave joined in after a moment.

"I expect you to do better next time, though", he managed between giggles once the laughter started to settle. Holmes sobered immediately.

"Of course. Forgive me."

"Just don't make it a habit", he waved it off, still smiling.

Holmes didn't say anything for the rest of their dinner apart from thanking him yet again after he was done. John stared at his blog in an attempt to write a new entry, but ended up deleting each sentence he managed to start. In the end he just re-read all his previous entries, if they could have even been called that, and made a new entry with a single line: _Look Ella, I'm writing my blog... _

He could hear the slave in the kitchenette as he washed the dishes and wiped the surfaces. Some time later Holmes appeared to the doorway, hovering by the frames, uncertain of what he was supposed to be doing. It was understandable, of course. There were owners who didn't want to see or hear their slaves when they weren't needed, there were those who thought a slave should always be doing something and those who didn't really care what the slave did as long they did all they were told to do.

"You don't need to stand there" John told him. "I don't have anything for you to do right now. You can take nap on the bed if you want to."

John wasn't sure whether Holmes's reaction was a deep nod or a half arsed bow, but he went to the bed and fell down on it like a log. John surfed the web for the news and weather for another half an hour before closing the laptop into the drawer with his illegal firearm. As far as he could tell, Holmes hadn't moved an inch.

"I guess I'll take a look at your file then", he said, mainly for the sake of saying something.

"Mm", was the only reply he got.

"Right..."

Holmes's file was probably the longest he'd ever seen a slave have. And far more interesting than your average one.

"You have", John marveled, "_a driver's licence_?" It had been voided several years ago when he'd been handed to a new owner, but it could be renewed any time. This slave started to look more and more like a real bargain. So far he had been nothing but well behaved, polite and helpful if you didn't count the cooking fiasco. John couldn't see why the handler had had such a low opinion of Holmes. The more he had read the file that described the slave's qualities and abilities the more impressed he felt. His slave was in fact well educated.

"Yes", came a monotone reply from the bed. "A previous owner of mine needed a driver."

"Maybe I should save for a car, then…" John muttered. Even if he didn't have a car, it might be a good idea to pay for Holmes's licence renewal at some point. He kept reading. The file was divided in several sections. The first part contained the general information concerning the slave: ID-number (tattooed on the left wrist in numbers and letters, but also in bar code form, which was quite rare these days), sex, height, eye and hair colour, slavery status (C, which stood for "enslaved as a child", rather than B meaning "enslaved as an adult" or A "born as a slave"), number of previous owners (nine?!)…

Additional information stated he had an ID-chip with a GPS tracker installed in 2000. That was fairly late, especially considering what the handler said about him. He'd been listed as lost property between May 1996 and November 1999. He was forbidden to sign an emancipation contract until 1.1.2032, limit given for several attempted escapes and _attacking his owner_.

John frowned at Holmes, who was still lounging on the bed, eyes closed and fingertips pressed to his chin. He was surprised –no, he was _shocked_ Holmes still had the chance to be freed at some point. Attacking his owner could have very well taken away the privilege of having the right to ask for an emancipation contract for good. It could have led in deeming him dangerous and put down completely.

The next section described Holmes's physical aspects very much in the same way pedigree dogs were described: how his muscles were, the type of bone structure he had, the condition of his teeth and hair, which hand he preferred, medical history and also an embarrassingly figurative description of his sex organs and sexual performance. John skipped it entirely, not feeling like reading it while Holmes was less than ten feet away from him. Notes said Holmes had a sensitive fingers and scalp, which were considered a positive trait. After all, should he behave badly, those were excellent places to hurt him.

There was also a list of the personal possessions the slave 99OR-79/3J3A was allowed to keep. Or rather, all the items and accessories that came with the slave. Most of them were very much standard: several clothing items, shoes, the duffle bag he'd already seen, shaving equipment, comb and a toothbrush. But most notably it listed two items that were legally his property and which John would have absolutely no right to take from the slave or destroy them: an antique violin of uncounted value with a case and a Belstaff tweed coat worth over a thousand pounds. He turned to gape at the slave on the bed: "Your coat is worth over thousand pounds?"

"My sixth owner was quite generous and had a good taste", Holmes said, eyes still closed.

"Sounds like you got along well."

"We did."

"Yet you're here."

"Yet I am", the slave agreed.

John wanted to ask more, but said nothing. Holmes probably couldn't tell much, seeing he was duty bound to stay silent about his previous owners. But someone had certainly invested a lot in him. Someone had liked him enough to actually give him property.

However, as the official papers moved to describe his personality, it became less flattering. It did describe him as "a quick learner, accurate and precise, scientific, capable of independent work" and "resourceful", but most after that was highly negative. He was described to be "ignorant and slow to understand commands". His bad qualities contained "occasional rebelliousness and/or unwillingness to comply or serve, arrogance, insolence, apathy" and "lack of understanding his master's needs". It outright said Holmes was stupid.

He was described as a slave who needed "strict rules, control, physical work to keep him occupied" and "regular disciplining should unwanted behavior arise". It also stated that his owner should be "strong-willed, consistent, repressive, resolute and ready to provide physical disciplining". John could see why he was given to an ex-soldier. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for Holmes, John wasn't sure he was the kind of man the paper described.

He had, of course, disciplined slaves in the army, but it wasn't something he liked to do and many of his army mates had rolled their eyes and said he was going too easy on them. But it wasn't him going easy on them. It was him being careful with them. Slaves were human, too, and as a doctor he knew how fragile human beings could be. Especially since back in the army it was him who would have to waste time on patching them up if someone went too far.

And he never, ever wanted to see a slave die again because of the power free human beings had over their lives. And absolutely not by his hand.

John glanced at his watch. It was nearing ten already. He had an appointment with Ella at nine in the morning. Might as well go to sleep relatively early.

"Right. Time for us to go to bed, I guess", he said. "If you want to use the bathroom before it, do it now."

Holmes peered his eyes opened and got up in one swift motion. Right before disappearing into the bathroom, he stopped hesitantly and slowly turned back to look at John.

"Do you want me to shave?" the slave asked.

John blinked at him. "Uh, yeah, I guess I'd prefer you without a beard, but –"

"I wasn't talking about my face."

John felt himself blush as he gaped at the slave. "Wha– oh yes, right, of-of course. Yes."

Holmes nodded. "I won't take long."

"What, no, no!" John hurried to correct himself. "I meant "yes, I get what you mean", but no. No, you don't have to...shave yourself. No."

"Natural then", Holmes said with another nod. "I should perhaps mention that my previous mistress preferred me clean, so it's-" He swallowed and his eyes darted elsewhere for a second. "Well, you saw me. It'll grow back."

John could only gape at him.

"I...will go clean myself then."

John shook his head and stood up. "Holmes. I'm not–no. I _don't_ want to have sex with you."

The realisation dawned on the slave's face. "Oh. I...I'm sorry, master. I didn't mean to–." Holmes cleared his throat. John wasn't sure which one of them was more mortified.

"Usually a new owner, they want to- Well, they want to have a, uh, test ride. I didn't mean to sound like I _assumed_ it was my right to sleep or have sex with you. I'm sorry."

"You haven't offended me", John assured the slave. He sighed. "Look, I've got to see my therapist in the morning, and it's been a long day. Use the bathroom if you need to, and I'll see if I have anything that could be used to make you a bed."

"Yes, master." Holmes's shoulders relaxed and he looked relieved. Perhaps he'd thought he'd gone too far by assuming they'd be sharing the bed tonight. It hadn't even crossed John's mind, truth to be told. Even if they were to have sex, which definitely wasn't tonight, he didn't think he'd like the slave to stay in the same bed. Holmes certainly hadn't earned the privilege, and even if he had, John just didn't want to share his bed with another man, slave or not.

Truthfully, sending him to the bathroom had been just an excuse to get the slave out of the room while he changed into an old t-shirt and trousers he'd been using an pyjamas ever since his return to London. He really had no idea what to do with Holmes's bed. He didn't have any extra pillows or blankets, not to mention, a mattress, but despite the knowledge he was rummaging through his stuff when Holmes returned.

"I don't suppose you have anything that could be used to make a bed?" he inquired.

"I have my coat and the bag could be used as a pillow if I stuff it with something."

"Alright, do that. Take some of my clothes for the bag if you need. Yours I guess might not be enough."

The slave fetched his coat and started to unpack the duffle bag (damn, he'd need to figure a place for Holmes's stuff) while John took his turn in the bathroom. When he returned, Holmes knelt next to the fireplace, dressed in a worn t-shirt and pyjama trousers, his possessions other than clothes next to him on the floor in a messy pile, and the stuffed bag and coat on the other side.

"You can go to sleep", he permitted when the slaves eyes followed him to the bed. "Shut off the lights, will you? See you tomorrow."

The slave rose and the lights went off with a murmured: "Goodnight, master."

It was both comforting and unnerving to sleep in the same space with someone. He'd missed the knowledge of other people nearby during his lonely nights here in London. In Afghanistan they rarely got to sleep alone. It was too silent in here, and too noisy at the same time. The cars passing by and the drunkards on the streets from nearby pubs made it all wrong.

At the same time he dreaded the idea of Holmes in the same room. He knew well enough by now that he probably said things in his sleep, whimpered and cried, maybe even shouted or screamed. It wasn't something he'd like anyone to witness.

He looked across the room. His eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the dark, but he could make the shape of Holmes next to the fireplace, the coat pulled over his shoulders.

_He's just a slave_, John reminded himself. It shouldn't matter what he saw or heard. He was less than a pet, furniture, even. No one cared what slaves thought.

* * *

Sherlock didn't sleep. As soon as he heard the doctors breathing pattern turn into that of sleep, he straightened his legs and turned to lie on his back. He didn't even entertain the possibility of sneaking out tonight when he didn't yet know how heavy or light sleeper his new owner was. He wasn't feeling especially energetic, but neither did he feel tired. He had napped on the bed quite a while and if there was anything to do at the holding centre, it was sleeping.

He felt relieved, lying on the floor, but somehow inadequate as well. Sickeningly so. It was a feeling that belonged to the slave side of him, the part of him he wished to have nothing to do with. If Dr Watson didn't want to sleep with him, it was a _good_ thing. He loathed the small part of himself that thought he was a failure if his new master didn't want to have sex with his new property right away. Was it the cooking? Was he being punished? Getting to sleep in your master's bed was supposed to be a great privilege, wasn't it? It was often only awarded for the head slave of the house, or a personal slave. So since Dr Watson had directed him to take a nap on his bed, Sherlock had assumed... Well, not assumed he'd be "rewarded" with a privilege, certainly not, but he'd thought that naturally John would have wanted to test him. And then perhaps just let him stay, even if it was a small bed, but there wasn't anything but the floor for him to sleep on. All his previous private owners had tested him, save from the first ones, but he had of course been too young at the time.

He shivered under his coat. It was cold on the floor, and the empty fireplace next to him gave no warmth. His master slept comfortably in his bed, radiator right there between him and the wall. Sherlock almost hoped he could've crawled to sleep under his new master's bed, next to the radiator, even if it wasn't a bed made for that kind of thing. Sex even might have been worth it, if he'd been allowed to spend the rest of the night sharing the same bed for warmth.

He turned to look away, angry for his own thoughts betraying him so, but the feeling refused to leave him. He managed to dose off for a while, partly awake, yet dreaming of needles in his arms. Of ones that granted him bliss, and of ones that would bring him death. He stirred awake around four in the morning, when doctor Watson started moving restlessly in his sleep. Soon Sherlock could hear him whimper and it didn't take long from that for the man to thrash awake violently, left arm darting quickly as if to fend against some unseen enemy. He held it there for ten seconds or so, until he remembered where he was.

Sherlock didn't dare to move. He could hear the man draw shaky breaths and in the dim light coming from the window he could see him biting into his fist to not sob out loud. The doctor probably didn't remember he was in the room, but then again, even if he did, what would it matter to a free man like him? Sherlock was just a slave, it hardly mattered what he saw or heard. He idly wondered if he should go to his master, attempt to soothe him somehow, but the mere idea disgusted him. He wasn't like that, he wasn't that much of a slave. He wouldn't willingly go to his owner's bed in the middle of the night, when the man had just woken from a nightmare. Not unless he was ordered to.

So he stayed silent and still, listening to the man's harsh breathing and how he tossed himself on his stomach, burying his face into the pillow. Sherlock didn't feel sorry for him. As a slave he should have felt some sort of compassion for his master, even for a new one, but Sherlock had never been like that. Would never be. He had never given up his pride or his free will, not even in Florida, even if it had been close. His body might have belonged to someone else for the majority of his life, but he'd never surrender his thoughts or feelings. Those no one could take from him unless he gave them.

So instead of going to his master, Sherlock closed his eyes, willing himself to ignore the sounds around him. He had constructed his primary mind palace to his childhood home. In there everything is still like it was when he was a free human being. Sherlock stepped inside through the front door to the hall. He wasn't looking for anything, just checking everything was in its place. His mind palace had grown throughout the years into a vast library of information that could not be thoroughly walked through in one night, so he decided to head for parts he hadn't recently checked. In his mind he walked around the hall, up the stairs and through the hallway to his parents' bedroom. Everything was as it should be and he had nothing new to add to the rooms upstairs. He had even constructed a new section for his new master, where he could store away the details he needed to know to keep him satisfied. So far it didn't include much, though most of normal people would have disagreed. But then again, normal people never observed.

It was perhaps two hours of wandering in his mind later when he was brought back to the reality by his new master poking at his side with his cane, but it took a moment for his startled mind to put together what the reality around him was. He opened his eyes and stared up at the man in annoyance to mask his surprise. "What?"

Dr Watson raised his eyebrow at his tone. "Your master's up, you should be preparing my breakfast."

Sherlock groaned, but complied. His muscles ached from lying all night on the cold floor and he had got barely any sleep at all. He could go long periods with no sleep, but for that he needed something interesting to occupy his mind with.

"You can use the bathroom after me. Cereals work fine this time", he said smugly.

Sherlock didn't bother to pay any attention to it. He had had worse than a little smugness thrown at him. "Coffee or tea?" he wanted to know instead.

"Coffee. Always coffee in the morning. Milk, no sugar."

"Understood."

He heard the shower go off little before the kettle's noise drowned all the other sounds from Sherlock. He prepared cereals and toast, since there wasn't much else. "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!" had to do, there wasn't anything else in the cupboards. Many slaves would have had hard time not eating some themselves without permission, but Sherlock had never liked eating. It seemed to slow down his thoughts, and after living a major part of his life on one meal a day, he wasn't particularly hungry yet. Despite it, his master invited him to sit with him, even allowed him a mug of his own and told him to make toast for himself as well. So Sherlock ate. It could very well be all he'd get to eat today and he didn't have anything to concentrate his mind yet that would take the attention away from inevitable annoyance known as hunger.

"You know", John started, "I can't remember the last time I've had cereals for breakfast. I just bought them a some point and then never even opened the package."

Sherlock nodded.

"You're allowed to speak", his master said. "I'd rather you did."

"As you wish, master", he replied half-heartedly.

They ate, but the silence between them stayed. The small TV was turned on to show the morning news and a talk show to provide some noise for the background, and his master occasionally made comments on it. Sherlock managed to mostly keep his thoughts to himself, only barking a sarcastic comment here and there a few times. It wouldn't do him well to have his brand new master annoyed with him just yet. But to his surprise, John Watson laughed good-naturatedly at his words, providing them with his own opinions. Soon they were having an actual conversation and Sherlock all but forgot his position until John checked his watch to realise he should leave in five minutes to make it to the appointment in time. Ella would not take it well if he'd be late.

"Wash the dishes, make the bed and do some general cleaning around here while I'm gone. The first two I expect you to do every day. You can sleep on the bed if you want. I'll be back around the same time as yesterday."

The orders snapped Sherlock back to reality. If John noticed the excited sparkle in his eyes disappear, he never commented on it. He probably didn't. Just one more idiot to serve, after all. "Yes, master."

* * *

"How's the blog going?"

Eyes fluttered closed for a second, chin tipped down. A shrug. "Fine. It's going fine."

"You haven't written a word since last week."

His eyes met hers. "No, not really", he admitted.

Ella sighed. "John, I'm not asking you to write just to spite you. This _will_ actually help you."

John licked his lips unconsciously. "I know. It's just...nothing really happens", he told helplessly.

He saw Ella open her mouth to argue, but before she had a chance to speak, he gestured her to wait and continued: "I'll write, I promise. Now I actually might even have something to write about."

She re-crossed her legs and her eyebrow rose questioningly, but she remembered what he was talking about before asking out loud. "You went to get the slave?"

"Yes."

"And how is it?"

"Well, I only got him yesterday", he shrugged. "His papers say he's a troublemaker, but so far he's been well-behaved."

Ella's eyes narrowed disapprovingly at "troublemaker", but she only wrote something down instead of saying anything on the subject, before boring her gaze at him again. "How do you feel about it? Becoming a slave owner."

John glanced out of the window. It was still windy and the hanging clouds indicated it might start raining later. Although it been so cold it might even snow. Who knew? Another shrug. "Fine I guess."

He knew Ella was waiting for him to continue. "It's...nice, I suppose. Having someone around."

She nodded, clearly expecting him to continue speaking.

"He's... I don't know. Different? His papers say he's been a slave since he was ten, but he's not like other slaves. It's...refreshing. Interesting."

She straightened herself in her chair. Tapped her notes with the pen. "Different how? You said he's a troublemaker."

John thought about the question for a while before answering. For some reason he didn't want her to cling too much onto the troublemaker part. Already protective over his property.

"He seems independent the way slaves usually aren't. It's more like he'd become a slave recently, actually. He's obedient, but not submissive. We ate breakfast together this morning, and it was more like talking with a friend than a slave."

Ella scribbled down something again and he tried to peer what it said, but she noticed and tilted the clipboard so that he couldn't see. He'd managed to make out the word "friend".

The conversation shifted to other subjects. How his week had been. How the job hunting was going on. Who he had met, what he had done with them. Had he been able to sleep. How he felt, always how he felt about things. By the time their session was over John felt mentally exhausted. He just felt tired. Tired of the therapy, tired of being here, tired of being tired and useless. He almost didn't feel like going to the interview he had arranged himself for a crime scene clean up. The job description had said they hired ex-soldiers and medics among with ex-firemen and other people who in general were used to stressful environment and gore.

And of course Ella had made him promise he'd go to the interview, though he hadn't told her what kind of a job it was. He wasn't sure if she'd approve. He'd focused on talking about another one he had later today.

But it was still several hours before it. He didn't want to go back to the flat, so he walked an hour aimlessly before deciding he could as well go see if he'd find whatever it was a new slave owner might need. He hadn't been an owner for more than a day, but he was already seeing the city differently. Most buses had an internationally known black stick-man on white background with a red collar around the neck, and an X over it, indicating no slaves were allowed to step on. Some taxis had it, too. A few shops, restaurants and buildings also had the slave banning sticker on their doors, banks and cash machines most notably. He saw many stickers with an added stick-man. _Slaves must be attended_, it said. He'd never paid any attention to these before.

He went to see mattresses, but cringed at their price. Maybe some other day. He probably couldn't even get one home by himself and couldn't afford to have it brought in a van. He hadn't been in London for long and already his finances were running low. At this rate he'd have to move out of London within a few months. He really needed a job if he wished to stay, the army pension wasn't even nearly enough to sustain living here.

He didn't buy a mattress, but he did buy a small pillow and a blanket. They would have to do for now. He'd think about the mattress later.

His first job interview, the one he'd arranged himself and not told about to Ella, didn't go well.

"Well, you're more than qualified", the interviewer had said, but John had immediately noticed something off with his tone. Sure enough, he had continued: "Officially I should keep you waiting at least until tomorrow, but I think it's fair to tell you right now that it's a no."

"No? What, why? You just said I'm qualified."

John had felt a sting of disappointment. It hadn't initially been the kind of job he would have wanted, but it would have paid well and as inappropriate it was, there was something about the idea of crime and homicide scenes that fascinated him, even if it was just to clean them up after the bodies had been examined and moved. The ad he'd seen online had specifically said they hired ex-soldiers, people who already knew they could handle it. He knew he could handle it.

"PTSD", the interviewer had said the cursed four letters. "We can't have someone suffering from PTSD scrubbing brain matter from the walls."

"I'm a soldier _and_ a doctor", John had snapped a little harsher than had probably been wise in his situation. "Brain matter on the walls is not a problem." It really, really wasn't. He didn't like it, who in their right mind would, but he knew he could handle it without freaking out or mulling over it later.

"No, sorry. Nothing I can do. I can't hire a guy with PTSD."

"I'm _not_ traumatised by bodies. Believe me, I've seen it all in Afghanistan."

The interviewer had raised his eyebrows in a manner that seemed to all but scream "you have PTSD, of course you are traumatised".

"I'm not saying I don't believe you, I'm just saying I can't hire you. Sorry."

Seeing there was nothing else he could say, John had made a hasty retreat. He didn't go to his second interview. The one that would have been his "proper" job interview that could have got him back working on the medical field. He wouldn't have wanted the crappy job the unemployment office had directed him to, anyway.

Holmes was nowhere to be seen when John opened the door. He tried calling, but the slave did not show up. After stepping further into his flat, it became clear that Holmes wasn't in the flat at all. Cursing under his breath he wobbled around the single room, unrealistically hoping the slave would magically turn up. He didn't.

His slave was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for all the comments so far. :) I'm genuinely surprised by the amount of interest here and on AO3. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter as well!

* * *

John sat heavily onto the bed, dragging his hand through his hair in despair. _Fuck._

Maybe Holmes had just gone to the Lidl around the corner. There wasn't much in the fridge and John _had_ told him to have meal ready by the time he'd get home. By skipping the interview he was more than two hours early.

No, no. Holmes didn't have any money and his ID chip hadn't been synced with his card. It would probably be for the best to never sync it. He hadn't even had any time to renew Holmes's right to legally carry money. _Shit._

Second day as a slave owner and he'd already lost the said slave. Or let it escape. What the _hell_ was he supposed to do now?

This wouldn't have happened if he'd just opened his damn mouth and said he didn't want Holmes. That he couldn't manage a slave with history like that and that he would've preferred a female. Even a male would have done, if it had been a normal one.

_Alright, think John, think._

What did people do when their slave disappeared? Should he call the police? Or InS? Should he wait and see if he came back?

John glanced at the floor by the fireplace. All Holmes's possessions seemed to still be there except for the coat. But maybe the violin wasn't important in the least. Maybe he didn't even enjoy playing it.

_The ID chip._ The idea hit John and he scrambled to the desk to get the slave's file. There it was, written on the contract. A website address, a user name and a password. All he had to do was to log in and he could check the slaves GPS record.

It took an annoying eighteen minutes for the laptop to turn on, the browser to start, the web page to load and for him to come up with a new password for his jhwatson account the InS site insisted him to do before letting him get any further. Then there was wall of text in the form of Terms and Conditions he scrolled by quickly without reading.

All the information concerning the slave 99OR-79/3J3A in an online form. John clicked the tracker. It immediately asked him whether he wanted to use the free version, start a paid service with a monthly rate or a paid service with a minute rate for temporary use. He clicked free.

The map of Britain loaded with a blue dot on London. John tried to zoom in, but the free service only let him know that Holmes was somewhere in the area. It wouldn't zoom close enough for him to be able to pinpoint an exact street. He checked back the three days the service allowed, but the only time the dot significantly moved was when Holmes had been given to John and they'd left the InS holding centre. But it _did_ move, even if only a little. Holmes had been out on his own yesterday as well.

He was probably coming back then. Hopefully. Still, Holmes had left the flat without his master's consent, apparently without any acceptable reason.

"Thought I wouldn't notice?" John muttered. Was he testing John? Was it some sort of a power struggle? He hadn't forgotten the staring contest in the cab. Holmes was definitely no ordinary slave, but two could play the game and he'd be damned if he was going to lose to a slave. Holmes would need to learn his place and John _would _make that happen.

He didn't need to wait even an hour before the doorbell rang.

John hauled the door open with far too much force than necessary. "Where have you been?"

Holmes looked at him with a face suggesting they both knew the answer, but out loud he said: "Walking."

It was truthful enough. As long as he stayed away from cash machines that would react to his chip if he went too close and kept his stigma hidden, he passed easily as a citizen. Even so, he hadn't been able to beg or ask enough money for a phone call, let alone for a cab. The tube and the buses were entirely out of question for a chipped slave like him travelling alone without proper papers. Ones he didn't have anymore, now that his owner had changed. Not that he had been able to come to central London apart from a few special occasions while under master and mistress Summers's ownership.

"Who said you could go out and have a walk?" John questioned as the slave stepped in and closed the door.

"You told me to 'do whatever you do'", Holmes quoted. He took off the coat as if nothing in particular had happened and hung it next to John's.

"Yeah, well, I meant inside. _In_ the flat. You _need_ my permission to go out! And don't give me that look", he said when the corner of Holmes's mouth twisted ever so slightly into a smirk. "I checked the GPS record. It wasn't just today, you went out yesterday, too."

"I did", Holmes calmly agreed. He shouldn't have been calm. He'd just been caught, he should have been quivering on the floor and apologising.

"I could take this as a failed escape", John threatened. "God knows you've tried that before. I've read your file"

Holmes wasn't intimidated in the slightest. "I came back, didn't I? I was not aware I wasn't allowed to leave the flat."

John ignored him. "I could have you flogged. No, actually I _should_ have you flogged."

Holmes lifted an eyebrow. It was a silent challenge, John knew it, but goddammit he didn't want to flog anyone. He didn't even own a whip or a cane or anything yet! Clearly he needed to add that to his shopping list. He grit his teeth in annoyance and ran his fingers through his hair. He should have anticipated something like this, he really should have. He'd read the damn file about Holmes! Strict rules, control and physical disciplining.

"How... How did you even get back in? You don't have the key. And _please_ don't say you just left the door unlocked somehow, because then I'm really going to have to flog you."

"Of course I didn't." There was a hint of mockery in his voice. "You would have noticed when you came in. I used the window", he explained, nodding towards it. It was indeed unlocked. John hadn't even noticed.

"I was going to come back the same way, but seeing you had returned, the lights being on being a bit of a giveaway", Holmes shrugged, "I decided to just come through the door because there was no point in trying to get back without you noticing anymore."

John paced in the small room, clenching his fists and fighting the urge to lash out at the slave who still stood in the doorway. Stood! Any normal slave would have been kneeling on the floor the second they became aware their master wasn't pleased with them.

"Explain yourself", he managed to order with relative calm, "and make it good. I might not own a whip, but I have belts."

The defiant look in the slaves eyes only seemed to increase, and his lips curled with confined anger, but the man lowered himself to stand on his knees, bowing his face slightly downwards, still looking at him under his eyebrows.

"I just went for a walk, _master_. You weren't supposed to be back yet. It wouldn't have affected any orders you gave me."

The _nerve_ this slave had! "You weren't supposed to go out at all!"

"I _wasn't _trying to escape!" Holmes equally raised his voice at him.

"Then what do you call it?"

"I just needed to get out! I spent two weeks in a tiny cell at InS, I_ needed_ fresh air!"

"What makes you think you can do that?" John yelled the slave. "I don't care what you feel you need. I'm the one who decides what you need. And I don't remember giving you a permission to go out on your own!"

"I've had masters who have let me go out when I have no duties to perform", the man argued. "I couldn't have known _you_ weren't one of them."

John growled in frustration, raising his hands in defeat. "Fine. _Fine_, I'm not flogging you for this. But if I catch you doing this again I _will_ discipline you. Is that understood?"

Holmes just glared at him.

"Is. That. Understood?" John spelled out each word, grabbing the slave's curly, black hair to force him to face his owner looming over him. The slave grimaced and hissed in pain as John pulled his head by the hair, far enough to make him sit on his knees like he should've done in the first place.

"Yes, master", Holmes replied, his tone rivalling his in its hostility.

John stepped back, letting go of the man's hair. He did not take his eyes off the slave. "I'm waiting."

Holmes's fingers clutched his knees and he grit his teeth. For several seconds they just stared at each other, until Holmes finally seemed to think the better of it, and assumed the floor position.

"I've displeased you, master. I'm sorry, please forgive me", he spoke to the carpet.

None of the words the slave forced out of his mouth sounded sincere, but at least he had said them.

"Forgiven, but not forgotten. You can get up and start preparing my dinner."

Holmes stood up and bowed. "Thank you, _master_."

"I don't like your tone", John snapped. "You already had your meal this morning, so after you're done you can start cleaning the bathroom. I thought I told you to tidy up this place."

"Forgive me, master", he said without any arguments, although technically he would have had every right to argue. A toast and a cup of coffee were nowhere near enough for one day's meal, but the slaves who would argue their already angered master were scarce. Evidently Holmes wasn't one to risk making the situation worse for himself by direct confrontation. "I'll make myself more useful."

"And make it spotless." John waved him off angrily. The plastic bag with Holmes's pillow and blanket was still on the floor. He kicked it under the bed, out of view. Holmes could sleep another night with his coat and the bag.

Holmes served the dinner in silence and did not attempt to make any conversation while he waited on the floor for his master to eat. He washed the dishes in equal silence, careful to even not make much noise with the kitchenware as John started writing the promised update for his blog. He found Holmes scrubbing the bathtub an hour later after he was done. It was a short update, and he had deleted and rewritten it before being satisfied with it. Hopefully Ella would appreciate the effort.

"Out."

The slave complied with a slight bow of his head and slipped past him. Not an inch of him touched John despite the cramped space. When John was done, Holmes stood waiting right behind the door, but was quick to step aside to let him pass. Slightly creepy that.

"You can sleep after you're finished. Be silent, I don't want you bothering me or the neighbours."

"Yes, master. Goodnight, master."

John went straight to bed without hearing the smallest sound from the slave. When he woke up in the morning he'd completely forgotten the existence of Holmes until he, still half asleep, opened the door to the loo.

"H-Holmes!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing?"

Holmes instantly scrambled up on his feet from the floor where he'd been on all fours. "Good morning, master", he greeted cautiously. He lifted his hand and gave a little wave with a toothbrush. "I'm cleaning the bathroom as master ordered me to."

John gaped at him. "Have you been up doing it all night?"

"Master explicitly told me it had to be spotless and done quietly", Holmes said, sounding a little wary. The extremely polite pattern of addressing one's master didn't fit well with the defiant look in his eyes.

"I didn't mean it literally!" John felt an odd need to defend himself even though Holmes wasn't really accusing him. And even if he was, he had no right to.

"Then master should have said so. I couldn't have known that." Holmes's tone was neutral, but John could see him tense a little. Other slave might have flinched at John's tone, but not Holmes. He just stated the fact despite he'd clearly been thinking John might have actually hurt him if the bathroom wasn't sparkling. And of course, a normal slave would have started apologising the moment their master rose their voice.

"Right." John sighed, shaking his head. "Sorry, you're right. I can see what kind of owners you've had previously."

"You're..." Holmes's brows furrowed in confusion and he dropped the polite speech pattern, "apologising me?"

"Well, I didn't realise you'd take it literally", he exclaimed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and drew a deep breath.

"Look, I know I was angry last night and lost my temper, but I'm not going hurt you for cleaning the loo", John reassured, gesturing with his arm. The room was cleaner than the day he moved in. "God, you've really been doing this all night... What even took you so long?"

"There's a lot of mold between the tiles."

True, John had noticed that, too, when he had moved in. He couldn't help but to admire the amount of work his slave had done.

"I think we can agree you've done enough for one night", he said. "Did you– is that _my toothbrush_?!"

"You would have needed a new one anyway. Clearly you've had it for months. It's appalling." Holmes looked at him calculatingly for a second before adding: "I'm just doing you a favour."

"_You_–" John shook his head. He couldn't really get mad, not with how absurd the situation was. Holmes was smirking at him and joined him in laughter a moment later.

"Did you–" John attempted to compose himself. "Did you sleep at all?"

"No."

"You're mad."

"Just following your orders."

Awkward silence fell into the room. At least it felt awkward for John up until Holmes's stomach growled loudly. The slave bit his lip and looked away. He was tired and hungry. He hadn't dared to sleep should he not wake up before his owner, and the only thing he'd had to fill his stomach was water. Even that he hadn't drank much so that he wouldn't need to use the toilet later. While he didn't think master Watson to be anything like his seventh owner had been, he still didn't know him well enough to say for sure how he would act when angered enough. And tonight had not been the night he wanted to find out if something like flushing a toilet in the middle of the night was something to make him snap. He'd been extremely careful with the tap and shower, too, using only minimal amount of water to not make any noise.

John felt guilty. He hadn't fed his slave for twenty-four hours, and Holmes looked exhausted.

"Right...um. After I'm done, you can get yourself ready. You must be hungry. I can take care of the breakfast today. You can sleep on the bed again and take care of the dishes later."

"Very kind of you, master."

John shook his head in bemusement. "Take a shower, too. And get rid of that toothbrush."

Holmes emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later after John, freshly showered and face shaven, wearing only a towel. John kept his eyes elsewhere while his slave dressed into a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

"We need to establish some rules", he said as soon as Holmes had sat down with his share of the breakfast.

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, though secretly he was relieved. Having rules laid out clearly would make his life significantly easier. Knowing the rules was the first step into knowing how to bend them or go around them. "Alright."

"First of all, everything I've already said still stands. You get up in the morning with me, preferably earlier, if you can. You make the breakfast while I'm using the bathroom. You can eat with me –actually you can always expect to eat with me unless I tell you otherwise. I'm not going to starve you, so I'm fine with you eating more than once a day, six times a week. It's your job to take care of the dishes and keep the kitchen clean. Keeping everything clean and neat is your job, and I expect you to keep the flat in order without me needing to specifically tell you every time. I don't really care what you do while I'm out. You can sleep or watch the telly, but I don't want you to go out without letting me know, alright?"

The slave nodded. "Yes, master."

"And I don't mean a post-it note." John felt like making it absolutely clear. "If you want to go out, you are going to need to ask for a permission. I want to know where you're going and what you're doing. And I want you back punctually. And if I deny you, then you are not leaving the flat. If I catch you leaving the flat without my permission again, I _will _discipline you."

The slave scoffed as if he'd offended him. "Of course."

John let it go unnoticed. "Laundry's going to be your job as well. I'll show you the laundrette later. Shopping, too, to some extent, I think, after I've updated your papers and get you a permission to carry money."

The laws were strict that way. Slaves weren't allowed to possess money, drive a car, work with a salary or travel on their own without proper paperwork in order.

"There's a Lidl just around the corner and a Tesco Express down the street. What else..? You can use the bathroom whenever you want as long as I'm not using it. Same goes for the TV. Like I said, you can watch it, but if I tell you to change the channel or turn it off, you do that."

Holmes seemed to pay more attention on picking his toast than his master's words, but said obediently: "As you wish."

John licked his lips. Was there anything else? He was certain Holmes would try to bend the rules if he wasn't thorough enough. "Right...I guess that's all for now. Or do you have any questions?"

Holmes abandoned the toast and suddenly all his attention was on John. It would have been unnerving to be the target of such intense eyes if he'd been a free man, but getting such a look from a slave was disturbing. The slave leant slightly over the table. "Just one. How do you feel about the violin?"

"Uh, I've no strong feelings for or against", John answered, taken aback by the unexpected question. "Why?"

Holmes looked him under his eyebrows before leaning back into his seat and took a bite of the toast. "You've read my file."

John's gaze found the file still on the desk. "The viol– Yes, right. You have a violin. Can you play it?"

This time Holmes definitely looked offended. "Obviously."

"Are you any good?" the master inquired.

"Very good", Holmes replied firmly. "You might be able to rent me for an orchestra."

John raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Really."

"Have you ever been rented for an orchestra before?" he asked curiously and sipped his coffee. It wasn't exactly the way he liked it, but he'd bring that up some other time.

"On few occasions."

"But not full time?"

"No. Just filling-in for a few nights."

"What else can you do?"

"This and that", he brushed off the question. "So you wouldn't mind if I played occasionally?"

"Not in the least. I might even ask you to. What do you mean by 'this and that'?" John wanted to know.

"I know chemistry and anatomy", Holmes stated, then half a second later decided to explain: "I used to work at a morgue."

"Your file didn't say anything about that."

Holmes waved his hand dismissively. "It wouldn't. What my previous owners used me for is their private business and not recorded by InS or anyone else."

"Then why are you telling me?"

Holmes swallowed the last of his coffee. "Why shouldn't I? Although whether or not I enjoy doing things isn't important, I actually do enjoy playing the violin and doing chemical experiments. If there is a chance that something I enjoy doing could profit you financially, why should I keep you in the dark? Your financial situation is painfully obvious. You can barely afford this flat with your pension and it looks like your job hunting isn't going very well."

"I've just started", John said defensively.

"It's the PTSD."

John's expressions darkened. "Enough of me, this is about you."

Holmes shrugged and got up to clear the table. "Whatever you say. _Master_."

"Yeah, about that..."

Holmes sighed, ready to open his mouth and apologise, but John cut him off: "I'd actually prefer if you called me John. In private, I mean", he added quickly. Having his slave address him by his first name in public would be too pathetic even for a desperately lonely, useless soldier like him.

The slave looked cautious at his demand. "Just...John? Not 'master John' or..?"

"No, just John. I've never been called 'master' before, it's weird", he admitted, but hurried to continue: "Obviously you'll call me 'master' in public."

The truth was, he almost wished Holmes weren't his slave. The few conversations they had had momentarily made him forget about how useless he felt. Having a slave to take care of all the tasks made him feel even more so, but talking with Holmes had been almost like talking with a friend. It was pathetic, he knew it was. Only old and lonely people kept slaves purely for company, but John could have done just that with Holmes.

"Is that alright?"

Holmes considered his words with a nonplussed expression before nodding slowly. "Very well. John."

* * *

John did not stay home for most of Saturday. He left, telling his slave he had things to do, even though he didn't. He simply didn't feel like staying in his bare, small flat. He would go crazy, end up staring at his gun again. So instead he wandered the streets, painfully slowly compared to what he had been used to before his injury. He sat a while in a café reading a newspaper. The two identical suicides from the past week still dominated the media.

Holmes had dinner at ready when he finally did find the energy, if not will, to return. The slave still did not set a place for himself before John explicitly told him to do so. At least he looked better rested than in the morning.

"So", he started, "I don't really know anything about you."

Holmes made a dismissive gesture. "All you need to know should be in my file."

"It isn't, though. I don't mean the clinical stuff. I don't care about your...muscle structure or– or the fact that you apparently speak fluent French."

The slaved smiled humourlessly. "_Oui._"

John looked at his plate and impaled a carrot with his fork before looking back at Holmes. "I assume you know what the file says."

"I've read it, yes", the slave confirmed.

"Good. So then you'll understand if I'm slightly...curious."

Holmes merely raised an eyebrow and chewed his food.

"It says you've been a slave since you were ten."

"Correct."

"Can I–" John swallowed back the sentence. He did _not _need to ask for a permission for _anything _when it came to Holmes. He started over: "What happened? Were your parents in financial trouble or..?"

While unfortunate, it wasn't terribly uncommon for parents to sometimes sell their child or children to slavery. Especially if the father of the child had been a slave. If the mother was a slave, the child more or less automatically became a slave unless the freeman father wanted to make the child a legal person for some reason. Even free children were, in the eyes of the law, their parents' property until the age of twelve.

"No. They died", Holmes replied. If the subject made him feel anything in particular, his voice or manners were not revealing it.

"Oh. And you...didn't have any other family?"

"No."

"Alright... It says I'm your tenth owner."

"Which you are", Holmes confirmed. "Technically."

"Why?"

"People tend not to like me."

John folded his arms. "Why?"

"I'm not exactly a perfect slave, am I?"

"It says you've tried to escape four times."

Holmes's eyes bore into him, as if he was determined not to look away. "_Three times_. And that was a long time ago."

"Three before you went missing, once after that. Why were you even missing for three years?"

His slave's lips curled in annoyance. "I _didn't_ escape."

"Four times", John repeated. "And apparently that's only counting the times it went to the records. Considering what I know about you so far, I really wouldn't be surprised if there were more. I ought to get you a collar."

Wearing a collar would at least have people immediately recognise him as a slave.

"If I'd successfully escaped, why would I've let myself be captured after three years? The third time _wasn't_ an escape attempt. You don't need to buy me a collar, I'm not going to escape", Holmes said irritably. "I shouldn't have left the flat, yes, but I came back. Isn't that enough of a proof?"

"Fine. But I'm still thinking about the collar. Why did you say 'technically'?"

The slave shrugged. "Like you said, I went missing for three years. I had several illegal owners. I didn't escape, I was illegally used. Yes, it was recorded as an escape, but I was never penalised for it. And legal or not, they _are _my previous owners so it's non of your business, _master._"

"John. Call me John", he reminded.

"Fine. John."

John breathed out and silently counted to ten. Holmes was difficult, he'd known that.

"I'm not picking up a fight here, Holmes", he eventually said. "I'm just trying to...to get to know you. Like it or not, you're living with me and I'm not throwing you away."

"Why would you need to _know me_?" the slave all but spat out. "You _own _me. You can have me be whatever you want."

"Not everyone is a bad owner, Holmes. There are people who want the best for their slave."

"Like you, _master_?"

"Yes, like _me_. I want the best for you. As a slave. You are my responsibility. So just be good and do your part, and you don't have to worry about anything. Worrying and making decisions are _my_ jobs. We all have our place in the society and the human are not born equal for a reason."

"I was _not_ born into this", Holmes growled at him, his expression twisted with anger.

"Nevertheless", John said firmly, determined not to let Holmes's feelings affect him. He was a slave. His feelings, while John did care for them, did not matter on this subject. "It's not like you were just thrown into it, right? They must have asked around for remaining family members."

Holmes's eyes averted.

"I didn't have any", he said quickly.

"Well what else were they supposed to do then? What else should they do to unwanted children?"

"What if it had been you, _master_?" the slave countered angrily. "Would you still think the same?"

"But it wasn't."

"But what if it was?"

"Well then I'd be a slave and deal with it!"

Holmes flinched at his tone, but John only closed his eyes for a moment before continuing much in a much calmer tone: "Listen...I wouldn't want to be a slave. Of course I wouldn't. But slaves...they're slaves. They have their place in the world. I mean... You have a purpose."

_I am grateful, for you give my life a purpose._ The words, painfully familiar, rang in Sherlock's ears automatically. Repeated by him countless of times to different masters and not once had he believed them. He would never believe them. His purpose, his _worth_ would never be to serve and obey and love his owners. He was a human being, _just like them_. Had been. Now he was furniture. His legal rights to some extent were worse than those of pets. You couldn't hit a dog after all, but you could hit a slave.

"I'm just saying, the economy, for example. They'd move all factories out of this country if it weren't for slaves", his master continued, completely oblivious to moodiness taking over his slave. "The world wouldn't function without slaves."

"The Nordic countries work well enough."

John scoffed at his argument. "Really? And where do you think they buy their stuff? They may have abolished slavery, but their countries run on slaves nevertheless. Bunch of hypocrites."

"There's Luxembourg and New Zealand, too."

"Same with them."

"At least they don't enslave their own citizens", Sherlock said, trying to hide the bitterness in his voice.

"Slaves _are not_ citizens." His master looked offended by the mere idea of it.

"I used to be a citizen."

"Well you aren't one anymore. End of discussion."

The slave accepted his order and did not say another word on the subject, although it clearly irritated him immensely. The mood stuck on Holmes for the rest of the night and later things escalated even worse.

"Holmes, could you–"

John cut himself off. He didn't need to ask, Holmes was his slave. He cleared his throat and started again. "Holmes, I want coffee."

No reply came from the slave and he didn't move an inch from the bed where he was apparently just resting, eyes closed but his hands brought over his chest into a prayer-like position. John pushed the chair a bit further away from the table to see the slave better.

"Holmes."

"Shut up, I'm updating", Holmes snapped, eyes still closed.

"What?" John blurted out. The slave didn't move. "Holmes, I said–"

"Oh, for–" Holmes sat up, throwing his arms in an obvious annoyance. "_What?_"

John blinked, opening and closing his mouth a few times before finding words again. "Did you just tell me to shut up?"

Holmes growled frustratedly. "Did you actually have something you wanted to say or were you interrupting me just because you can?"

John gaped at him. No slave had _ever_ talked this disrespectfully to him.

"Well?" Holmes prompted, still completely oblivious to his master's anger.

"Holmes. Floor, _now_", John growled at the man,

Holmes looked at him like he only now had remembered who he was talking to and dropped down on his knees.

"I said _floor_."

Holmes groaned irritably. "Oh, please."

"Onto the floor!" he shouted, getting violently up from his seat. The dramatic effect was considerably lessened by his right leg buckling under him, but Holmes seemed to finally realise John was being serious and kowtowed hurriedly.

"Honestly..." John muttered under his breath, steadying himself with the back of the chair. Fucking leg, he hadn't meant to sound _that_ angry. "Why do you have to be so difficult? I just told you to make a cup of coffee, not run an errand to the other side of the city."

Although Holmes would have probably been more than happy to run an errand if it meant he'd get to roam around London freely.

"You've nothing to say?"

"Apologies", came a muffled response from the floor.

"For what?" he demanded.

"I..." Holmes paused, reluctant to say anything.

"Yes?"

"I defied you, master. I apologise. I'll prepare the coffee right away", Holmes promised, lifting his face from the carpet to test the grounds. John had not objections.

"Yes, do", he sighed. "On your knees."

Holmes obliged in silence, once again like a proper slave should. His face betrayed no emotion and he kept his eyes cast down, stoically waiting for his master's next action. Another man might have beaten him with a stick until he was a whimpering mess for what he had just done, but not John, even if a part of him wanted to do exactly that. Someone probably had done it in the past and it hadn't changed Holmes's behaviour for better.

"Tell me, Holmes", he started, walking to his slave. Holmes flinched barely noticeably, then visibly braced himself for whatever he assumed John would do.

"Did you talk this disrespectfully to your previous owners, too? Or is it just me? Am I getting some kind of special treatment?" John demanded, trying very hard to stay calm.

"Because I have _never_ in my life had a slave talk back to me like this."

"It's there in my file, isn't it? I'm ill-tempered and bad-mouthed. I'm not a good slave", Holmes snapped.

John slapped him as hard across the face as he dared, avoiding his nose. He didn't want the man to bleed on the fitted carpet after all.

"I'm your master and you _do not_ talk to me like that. Just answer the question."

Holmes pursed his lips stubbornly. "Yes. Yes, I've always disrespected my owners."

John nodded and straightened his back. "Alright. Good. You can get up and make that coffee now. Which you would've already done by now if you'd just obeyed in the first place. And now that I think of it, I'm actually a little hungry, too. Make that a coffee and a sandwich. There's duct tape in the drawer, I'm sure you can find it. Tape your mouth shut, serve me my coffee and then you can go back 'updating' or whatever it was you were doing. And if this happens again, I _will_ buy you a muzzle. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes, master." Holmes rose and bowed. "Thank you, master."

His mouth remained taped shut for the rest of the night.

* * *

Thank you for reading and please do leave a comment to tell me what you think. :)

As for the countries that have abolished slavery in this alternate universe, I picked them up because all of them were in the top on several different freedom, democracy and equality indexes I spent way too much time on reading. Plus I need at least Norway to be there. For reasons.


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